In episode one of The Driver Vince McKee turned to a life of crime as a criminal crime driver so his daughter could have driving lessons. The irony! It’s obvious that boredumb in his long turd relationshit was also a factor. Ways to stop your man robbing a bank ladies: spice things up in the bedroom. Or have an affair – the fuck I care?
We rejoin Vince with Col beating up the car boot scrote and booting him down a disused mine shaft. Bloody Thatcher – this is her doing. Vince is being a little bitch about it but now it’s done he can go for that anniversary meal. It’s a proper swanky place Ros has both but he has to go and screw up everything by dragging up the past and their shit son. She blames him for not bringing him home from The Children of Barabbas cult from Neighbours. Shit son was undoubtedly another star in the constellation of reasons that Vince had absolutely no choice but to drive a bunch of people to their deaths. Don’t think that we don’t know that Vince. You’re a good man.
Shit son was undoubtedly another star in the constellation of reasons that Vince had absolutely no choice but to drive a bunch of people to their deaths.
So good in fact that early the next morning he shoots off to the mine to revisit the previous night’s handiwork. It’s too late for the coal industry but maybe there’s hope he can save the scrote with a rope. The dude’s fucked up and his shit’s all retarded but he’s alive – ALIVE! Vince drags him out with a rope attached to his car Wild West style. You know what they say: give someone enough rope and they’ll hang you with it. It’s true – compassion will get you killed quicker than anything.
He’s not really cut out for a life of crime. Ros has rumbled him and Fat Boss knows he’s moodier than a £30 note. A trip to the countryside would do him the world of good. Unfortunately Vince chooses to make his destination the Children of Barabbas cult and he’s packing a lump hammer. He socks the cult leader in the jaw and this buys him five minutes with shit son.
He’s banging some ginger broad called Amanda who’s actually pretty decent. Fucking hell Vince if the pumpum’s good it can’t be that bad. He shouts at him through his locked bedroom door “Come ‘ead son! Come on mate! ‘Ey, soft lad! Dis is the thanks we get? I’ll bloody kill you! Come ‘ead!”
And then he cries like a little bitch. It’s a seriously humiliating walk of shame passed all the cult members he just terrorised. “*Cough* Homo!” one mutters as the others titter.
Police track him down and question him about mineshaft scrote, currently an inch from death in hospital. It’s not his most convincing performance and it’s obvious the filth have their doubts. The walls are closing in and with Ros pissing in his ear three times hourly it’s time to take decisive action.
He goes around to The Horse‘s stables to tell him he’d like to quit and he won’t take neigh for an answer. As luck would have it The Horse is in and so are all the guys. They’re having a get-together, beating Col to crab paste as a direct result of Vince’s mineshaft heroics. “Hiya mate” says Vince weakly as he looks down at Col on the floor with a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb, fractured jaw, busted occipital lobe, perforated eardrum, several broken ribs, swollen knackers and life-threatening brain damage. Col would respond but his vocal chords are somewhere behind his kidneys. He’s had better evenings.
Vince decides that maybe now wouldn’t be a good time to bring up the whole quitting thing. There’s a big job coming up and they need a good driver.
Unfortunately they’ve only got Vince so he’ll have to do it. Ruh-roh!
The verdict: That meter better not be running.
Marks out of 10: 7.5